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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212034">A Nice Ring to It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuzzCat/pseuds/BuzzCat'>BuzzCat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(Belated) Cablanca Week 2020 [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Knives Out (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Marriage of Convenience</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:22:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuzzCat/pseuds/BuzzCat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Inheriting the estate of a well-known reclusive mystery author, especially inheriting in the specific circumstances in which she did, Marta learned a lot of things quickly. She learned that there was a wine cellar in the house, which housed the kind of liquor she was afraid to breathe on, after Googling how much it was worth. She learned that after the Instagram Live video of her and her car, Marta had to get a new car and fast to avoid being tailed by press and fans. And it meant, fastest of all, Marta learned to dread lawyers. Luckily, Benoit is a good friend to have in a tight jam.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(Belated) Cablanca Week 2020 [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Nice Ring to It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 5 - Tropes</p>
<p>Marriage of Convenience trope, because I'm a simple person with simple wants and I want this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Inheriting the estate of a well-known reclusive mystery author, especially inheriting in the specific circumstances in which she did, Marta learned a lot of things quickly. She learned that there was a wine cellar in the house, which housed the kind of liquor she was afraid to breathe on, after Googling how much it was worth. She learned that after the Instagram Live video of her and her car, Marta had to get a new car and fast to avoid being tailed by press and fans. And it meant, fastest of all, Marta learned to dread calls from Alan, the lawyer executing Harlan’s estate. Whatever he said, whenever he called, there was a new detail, some other paperwork Harlan’s revised will had failed to address but needed to be ironed out quickly.</p>
<p>It meant that when her Sunday afternoon was interrupted by a phone call with his name, Marta took a single fortifying sigh before she answered, “Yes?”</p>
<p>“Marta, just wanted to ask what your intentions were regarding the stipulations in the will.”</p>
<p>Marta frowned. “Stipulations?” There had been no stipulations, not that she knew of. Alan had read it at the will-reading, at his assistant’s behest, and the family had turned on her. That was the full reading of the will.</p>
<p>But Alan replied, “Yes, the stipulations. We’re approaching the deadline and Harlan was very specific about the stipulations.”</p>
<p>“There aren’t any stipulations, I thought.” Marta set down her crossword puzzle, one of the habits that had carried over from her days with Harlan. They had always done them together and doing them now alone felt strange, but it kept that memory from disappearing, kept his voice in her head.</p>
<p>“No, there’s a specific stipulation in the will. Now, where is—“ There was a sound like a finger tapping on paper and Marta was certain his assistant was in the office pointing at the clause— “yes, here. ‘I leave all my assets to Marta Cabrera, with the stipulation that within one year she select a benefactor and marry—“</p>
<p>“Marry?!” She felt queasy. Harlan, that old—</p>
<p>“‘Marry’, yes. Within the year. And as you know, the anniversary of Harlan’s death is—“</p>
<p>“Next week,” Marta said in a breath. Marta had heard of a planned online memorial for the fans. She herself intended to go the cemetery with the GO board and two cups of coffee, but apparently there were other plans to make. Marta took a deep breath, “And if I don’t marry?”</p>
<p>“Harlan’s revised will details that if you do not marry by the appointed time, the revised will no longer applies, money goes to the family, and you will inherit nothing.”</p>
<p>Of course. Marry, or live with the fact that she hadn’t been able to respect Harlan’s last wishes. No matter what, Harlan wanted to leave behind a mess, that was for damn sure. He had always been more dramatic than the rest—perhaps it came with the writing territory—and if there was one thing he wanted from his death, it was drama. Not for the first time, Marta wished he were alive so she could yell at him over some new mess.</p>
<p>Alan interrupted her thoughts. “Marta? With the stipulation, if you fail to meet the requirements, it will be very public. And I don’t see Harlan’s children being gracious about one single thing here.” And they’d be all over her. And the money would be gone. The damned fortune that had caused so much turmoil that Marta had been trying to use to do good. Providing for her mom, sending Alice to whatever school she wanted, setting up scholarships and helping out with charities. All the good Marta was trying to do, undone because of an old man who liked to meddle.</p>
<p>Marta swallowed. “I’ll do it. I’ll get married.”</p>
<p>Alan paused. “Do you have someone in mind to call for this?”</p>
<p>She took a breath. “Yes. Thank you for calling, Alan.”</p>
<p>Marta hung up the call and threw up in the closest vase.</p>
<p>She had no idea who to call for this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Almost a full week later, and Marta still had no one to call. She had 72 hours to make it official; there would be a 24-hour waiting period after obtaining the marriage license from the city, so she had 48 hours to call someone and convince them to marry her. Someone she could stand being married to. Alan had forwarded her the details of the stipulation, and it included that they had to be married for a full year, or else the stipulation would be unmet, and the money would go to the family and she would have failed Harlan. Two days to get engaged, and her contact list was starting to look pretty thin. Woefully thin. Impossibly thin.</p>
<p>She leaned forward on the table, resting her head on her folded arms with a groan. It was late, gone midnight. There was no one she could call now anyway, not when even the moon was starting to set. This was stupid. Anyone who would marry her for money wasn’t someone Marta would want to marry. She was just starting to regret not listening to Alice’s demands that Marta ought to date more, when suddenly her phone buzzed.</p>
<p>Not even a text, but an incoming call, from Detective Blanc. Marta didn’t hesitate to answer the phone.</p>
<p>“Blanc? Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Miss Marta.” He sounded out of breath and shaken, and it had Marta on her feet, even if she couldn’t do anything to help. She heard him take a deep breath and when he spoke again, he seemed to have recovered his composure. “I was simply calling to ask how you’re doing this evening.”</p>
<p>“Blanc, it’s after midnight and you’re calling me. Something’s wrong, just tell me.” There was a silence, just for a beat. Marta could almost hear him planning to shrug it off and she added, “I can’t lie to you and you know it. So, don’t lie to me.”</p>
<p>He blew out a breath, and then the words came out haltingly. “There was a nighttime horror that brought to mind certain events of the past, and in my half-awakened state, it seems I called you to determine the horror was imagined.”</p>
<p>Marta frowned and reassembled the words. “You had a nightmare? About me?”</p>
<p>“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”</p>
<p>Marta hadn’t even known he still had her number, let alone that he thought of her enough to have a nightmare. “Oh.” She readjusted herself in her seat, leaning back in the chair away from her paperwork and lists. “Do you want to talk about it?”</p>
<p>“I do not find myself inclined toward that course of action, though your offer is sincerely appreciated.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” They lapsed into silence again. Marta could hear the birds starting to call outside her window. They were always so early out here, so much easier to notice than when she had lived in the city. She didn’t hang up the phone, but Blanc didn’t hang up either. “Do you want to talk about something else?”</p>
<p>“I would hate to disturb your sleep any more than I already have,” Blanc said, and he sounded so guilty. Marta shook her head, then remembered he couldn’t see her.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t asleep anyway. I was thinking.”</p>
<p>“Thinking? And what could keep you up thinking at this hour?”</p>
<p>And it all poured out. The stipulation, the deadline, the lack of prospects. The concerns about the family, what the Thrombeys might do to her when she didn’t have the money to keep them at bay. What might happen to her sister’s education. Having to tell her mom that Marta couldn’t provide for them with the fortune, that once again they’d be counting cents. Her mom’s green card was secure, at least, but there was still so much Marta dreaded having to confront again. She did not cry from the stress, at least, though it was possible a detective as fine as Blanc could have picked up on the lump in her throat that appeared halfway through the description.</p>
<p>At last, Marta fell silent with a steadying breath. “I wish Harlan was alive, just so I could yell at him for doing something this foolish.”</p>
<p>Blanc gave her a slow laugh at that, coaxing out Marta’s own nervous smile. “I’m sure he’d have his reasons, lackluster though they may be.”</p>
<p>“His reasons being that he was a meddling old man who thought my life was too boring.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Thrombey did have a certain dramatic flair, from what I gather.”</p>
<p>The line fell silent between them. Marta felt it all pressing down on her, the weight of expectations and the cost to herself and her family if she failed to rise to the occasion. Benoit asked quietly,</p>
<p>“Do you truly have no one in mind? No friends who would understand a will-stipulated marriage?”</p>
<p>Marta shook her head. “After I inherited, with the trial and Mom’s green card and everything else, everyone sort of…lost contact.” In truth, Marta hadn’t known what to say to anyone. She was famous, at least locally. It made meeting for coffee hard, and harder still when friends started implying less than savory ways Marta might have earned the money or tried to tell her exactly what she should do with it. None of them were people she really wanted to have lunch with, let alone marry. But perhaps she needed to widen her net. “Do you know anyone?”</p>
<p>Blanc scoffed. “Marta Cabrera, are you asking me if I have any passing acquaintances I would recommend as a husband?”</p>
<p>“Considering I’ve already asked all of mine, yes.”</p>
<p>Blanc was silent, but Marta could almost hear him considering. If she had a recommendation on behalf of a kind detective who despised avaricious assholes, she’d take the opportunity with both hands.</p>
<p>At last, Blanc blew out a sigh. “At the risk of sounding gauche, I’d like to suggest myself.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” He wasn’t in her phone. She’d never saved his number, so he hadn’t even crossed her mind.</p>
<p>“If you’re opposed, I promise I’ll take no offense.”</p>
<p>“I’m not offended. I’m just, surprised. I thought you were already married.” True, he wore no ring, but a lot of men didn’t wear rings. He was empathetic and smart, and just a little strange in a fun way, from what Marta could recall. It was honestly surprising to hear he was still single.</p>
<p>“No, I’ve never had reason to enter the state of holy matrimony.” He sounded guarded, more closed-off as he said it. There was a story there, Marta was certain of it, but it wasn’t her place to pry.</p>
<p>She thought it over, mind ticking over the idea carefully. Blanc was a good man. He already understood her rather unique situation and he understood why she couldn’t just surrender the money. He was a detective, working often. Even if they didn’t get along, he would be traveling for work. They could be married for a year and spend barely six months together, depending on how long his cases ran. He was a kind man. And when they divorced in a year, Marta had no doubt they could remain friends.</p>
<p>“Detective Blanc—”</p>
<p>“Benoit, if you please.”</p>
<p>“Benoit. Thank you.” Her thanks were breathless, the weight of all her stipulation-related worries sloughing off like mud in a hard rain. “Thank you. I know I’m asking a lot from you.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad to be of assistance, Miss Cabrera.”</p>
<p>“Marta. If we’re going to be married, you should probably call me Marta.”</p>
<p>“And if we’re going to be married, I’d like to formally ask you a question.” He paused. “But perhaps I should best save it for when we meet again. I’ve heard this sort of question is best asked on one knee.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to, it’s not—”</p>
<p>“On the contrary, Marta. I want to. If my momma knew I was marrying a lady without ever properly asking for her hand in marriage, she’d haunt me the rest of my natural life.” Family. Oh, Marta was going to have to tell her family she was marrying “that hot detective” (Alice’s term, not hers). <em>A problem for a different night</em>, she thought, pushing it aside and saying instead,</p>
<p>“Okay,” Marta said quietly. It was too much. It was too much to ask Benoit, who she hadn’t spoken to in months. But she hadn’t even asked, he’d offered. It was so much to offer. “When you come into town, I can pick you up at the airport?”</p>
<p>“Much obliged.” Silence fell between them again, heavy and awkward. The day had been so long and, in a rush, Marta felt so tired. Just so tired of everything, of playing Harlan’s games even after he was gone, of dragging other people into games she didn’t want to be playing either. She yawned, and Benoit must have heard her. “I’m sure it’s been long day for you, and I have travel plans to make, so I will bid you <em>adieu</em> for the evening. I’ll see you tomorrow, Marta. Sleep well.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Benoit. You too.” Marta hung up her phone and stared unseeing at her desk. She, Marta Cabrera, was going to marry Benoit Blanc. She thought the sentence over again, turning it around, and it still seemed so strange, like a nonsense sentence of names and verbs.</p>
<p>But as she stumbled from her desk to her bed, barely pulling the covers over her head before sleep claimed her, Marta couldn’t stop the thought from drifting in that ‘Marta Blanc’ had a nice ring to it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>One more day! Tune in tomorrow for the last installment of the (Belated) Cablanca Week 2020 series!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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